


Ara Ma'athlan Vhenas

by anotetofollow



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Gift Fic, Library Sex, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Reunion Sex, Reunited and It Feels So Good, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotetofollow/pseuds/anotetofollow
Summary: It has been two years since Morrigan last saw Shay Mahariel. Since she last saw her lover.
Relationships: Female Mahariel/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Morrigan/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	Ara Ma'athlan Vhenas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alynshir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynshir/gifts).



> a gift for @alynshir, a wonderful friend, an awesome writer and the creator of shay mahariel, who i am obsessed with and whom induces brain worms

Morrigan feels her enter the room.

She feels her before she sees her, before she even hears light footsteps on the polished boards of the library floor. It’s as though something in the air shifts, like pressure building in the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. Morrigan is facing away from the door, staring out of the window that looks down upon the revellers below, and she realises, to her surprise, that she doesn’t want to turn around. In case it’s not as she suspects. In case she’s wrong.

“Leliana told me where to find you.” That voice, low and husky, more familiar than breathing. She isn’t wrong. It’s her, it’s her and she’s here, it’s her and she’s here and she’s _alive_.

Morrigan turns, her heart in her throat. Shay is standing by a wall of bookshelves, eyes on the titles as though she had simply come here to find something to read. Her loose garments of white and taupe are simple, and Morrigan can picture how the fashion-conscious denizens of the Winter Palace must have looked at her as they passed, not knowing on whom they turned their ire. Shay’s mask is all of filigree, curved like the beak of a bird. Morrigan can picture the face behind it — has pictured it, every day for two years — the hawkish profile, the dark vallaslin across her cheeks and forehead, the scars beneath. Obscured so, Morrigan cannot read the language of Shay’s features, cannot spell out the words her expression makes. She wants to close the space between them, pull loose the ribbon holding the mask in place below the braided honey of her hair, brush her fingers over the nape of her neck. And yet, something stops her. There is no reason why she should not; this is her lover, her partner, her companion. But the years have carved out a gulf between them that Morrigan does not know how to cross. It is as though she were suddenly her younger self again, not knowing how to unpick the tangles of her heart, afraid of the closeness of another.

“You look… different,” Shay says, the direction of her gaze indicating Morrigan’s gown, the jewels at her throat. “Of all the conditions I thought I might find you in, wearing hoop skirts wasn’t one of them.” The faintest flicker of amusement in her voice.

“I may become a bear, or a cat, or a spider as needed,” Morrigan says. “This is but another skin. Taken on for convenience.”

“You work for the Empress now.” It is not phrased as a question.

“I work _with_ Celene. Or I did. I believe it may soon be time for me to move on.”

“To the Inquisition?” Shay shifts her weight to her other foot. _Curiosity, excitement._

“Yes.”

“I’ve already made contact. Alistair is working with them, did you know?”

Morrigan scoffs, an old habit. “Perhaps I shall rethink my involvement.”

Shay’s eyes catch the light when she turns to face her. “Don’t.”

There is a moment of perfect quiet. In the sconces in the walls the lamps burn with a slow and steady light. It makes her look burnished, golden. Morrigan wonders silently where she has been these past years, what she has done, how often she has thought of her. Her own path has been a strange one, and it has advanced her goals immeasurably; has Shay’s been as bountiful? Has she suffered?

“So here we are again,” Morrigan says. “Pulled into the slipstream of fate. Will it always take a history-defining event to bring the two of us together, do you think?” She is being flippant to cover her fear, wondering for the first time whether Shay is pleased to see her.

“I hope not,” Shay says. “Too few and far between.”

Morrigan manages half a smile. “I quite agree.”

The way Shay glances down at her feet then speaks to her; _regret, guilt, longing._ “How is Kieran?”

“Well. Very well. He has missed you.”

“And his mother?” Shay asks quietly. “Has she missed me?”

“She has not known whether to miss you or to mourn you.” Suddenly something flares in Morrigan, almost like anger, much more like love. “It has been two years, Shay. After a certain time one begins to wonder.”

Shay reaches under the collar of her shirt, pulls out a simple ring suspended from a cord around her neck. Once pressed into a hand damp with fever-sweat, a farewell that proved nothing of the sort. Morrigan’s hand goes unconsciously to its twin, a simple band among fingers now heavy with jewels.

“Wouldn’t you have known if I’d died?”

“It is… hard to say.” Morrigan frowns. “At times I thought I felt you there. But such magics are fickle. It could have been your spirit I felt.”

“Well, I didn’t die,” Shay said. “I’m right here, Morrigan.”

“Let me see you, then. You are not among the court now. You have no need for masks with me.”

Slowly Shay reaches up to the back of her head, undoes the ribbon holding the mask in place, sets it down on one of the bookshelves. She wrinkles her nose a little, stretching out the skin where the metal has pressed in, and in that moment Morrigan is overwhelmed with the need to touch her, to hold her, to know that she is not some ephemeral vision. Now that she can see Shay’s face Morrigan can once more read her plainly. Exhaustion is written in the new lines around her eyes, the crease above her brows. There is a heaviness to her, a rigidity to her features that speaks of long journeys, scuppered goals, days lost to time. But there is love there too. It is in the half-shadows of her eyes, the softness of her mouth, the way she turns the length of her body towards her.

“I have missed you,” Morrigan says, realising that these should have been the first words to pass her lips.

“Good.” Shay smiles. _Teasing, affectionate, reciprocal._ “I’ve missed you too.”

And with that the tension of their absence cracks, splinters, shatters. Shay crosses the library floor in a few quick strides and is in Morrigan’s arms, chapped lips on soft, the hunter’s calloused fingers against her skin. Morrigan lifts her hands to cradle Shay’s face, feeling her warmth, relearning the lines and contours of her. How has she lived so long without this? She feels Shay’s touch at her throat and Morrigan suddenly wants nothing more than to rip away the delicate plates of gold there, to remove every barrier between the two of them.

They have been moving backwards as they kiss, towards the great table in the centre of the library, and Morrigan feels her gown brush up against it. She leans back, half-sitting on the surface to better accommodate Shay’s embrace, her hands finding the hem of the elf’s shirt and pushing upwards, feeling the supple curve of her waist. Shay peppers kisses across Morrigan’s jaw, her cheek, her ear, mouth hot with wanting.

“Never again, do you hear me?” she says. “Never this long again.”  
All Morrigan can do is nod, mind thick with the scent of her, leather and fresh straw and honeysuckle. A sound escapes Shay’s throat, so low it’s almost a growl, protective, territorial, _you are mine_. It causes something to tighten low in Morrigan’s stomach, an answering call, _I am yours_.

She breathes out slow when Shay kisses along the exposed slope of her shoulder, the elf’s hands sliding over the corset that covers Morrigan’s gown. Shay grunts, her shoulders flexing, _thwarted, irritation, what is this for?_ She deftly unpicks the laces and tosses the stiff fabric to one side, pulls Morrigan close to her. Without the hard ribs and rigid stays restricting them they melt into one another, arms clutching for purchase, wanting to be nearer, to be one.

Then Shay is kneeling, pushing up Morrigan’s layers of skirts, pressing her lips to Morrigan’s ankle, her slender calf, the inside of her knee. The heat against her skin, muted as it is by the gossamer-thin silk of her stockings, is enough to send a shiver of pleasure thrumming through her. She grasps the hem of her dress, lifts it further, cursing the Orlesian fashion for excessive petticoats. Shay seems to share her frustration. She is already making light work of the layers of taffeta, tearing them with her hands when pushing them aside is not enough, still kissing her way upwards.

“Careful,” Morrigan breathes. “Gowns like this do not come cheaply.”

“Since when do you care about such things?” Shay reaches the top of Morrigan’s stocking, hooks a finger underneath it, nips at the sensitive flesh there. “I imagine Empress Celene has gowns to spare.”

“ _Ah_. She does, ‘tis true. I suppose it would not hurt for one to go to waste.” She smooths her hand over the crown of Shay’s head, runs her fingertip along the graceful peak of her ear. The elf’s back curls at that, as Morrigan knew it would; _please, yes, just there_.

And then Shay is pushing her legs apart, tugging her underclothes to the side, and Morrigan can feel the warmth of her breath and her head is spinning with it, and the doors of the library are not locked but she cannot find the will to care, can only think about how long it has been, how much she has missed this, missed her, forever choking back the need on her long nights alone.

Shay begins slow, achingly slow, teasing heat with the tip of her tongue, tracing slow, maddening circles that never quite bring satiation. Morrigan claws at the back of her neck, willing her forward, but Shay is steadfast. She hums at her lover’s eagerness, the low vibration of it sending waves of pleasure through Morrigan’s core.

“You would torture me,” she manages to say. “Even after so long?”

The line of Shay’s back betrays her amusement; _coquettish, playful, you know you like it._ “What’s a little more waiting?”

“Would you have me beg?”

“No. Not just yet.”

And then Shay’s mouth is on her in earnest, and Morrigan can speak no longer. All her focus is on the white-hot ache between her thighs, the motion of Shay’s clever tongue, the way she slips two fingers inside and arches upwards, touching her where she needs to be touched, her other hand finding Morrigan’s and gripping so tight it feels as though she may never let go.

Morrigan has always been adept at mastering her emotions, at hiding things away in the shadowed corners of her mind. When she and Shay parted ways she tucked her sorrow into one such corner, forced it to stay there, though it had grown and expanded in such a way that it could often not be ignored. But she had her life to live, and so did Shay; theirs was a bond forged in pragmatism, and that commitment to do what was necessary had brought about their parting, in the end. Still Morrigan had pushed it down, turned away, refused to acknowledge the rending of her heart, had poured herself into her son and her ambition and her pursuit of the eluvians. Only now, now that Shay is with her again, truly with her, does Morrigan realise how sick she has become with missing her.

Morrigan grips the edge of the table hard as she feels her peak approaching, closes her eyes to better focus on the feel of Shay against her, inside her. It is a spot of light that grows, trembles, then explodes like a dying star. Morrigan cries out despite herself, arching into the touch, her fingers digging into the palm of Shay’s hand, the nape of her neck. It is a moment that lasts a lifetime. Once it is over Shay flows to her feet, kisses her again, and Morrigan tastes herself honey-sweet on her lover’s lips.

“I’ve never known you be so noisy,” Shay says, nuzzling into her throat. “You’ll get us kicked out of the palace.”

Morrigan manages a shaky laugh. “On the contrary. The court would surely embrace such a scandal.”

“The Empress’s advisor and the Hero of Ferelden. That would be a good bit of gossip.” She is leaning into Morrigan now, stroking along her arms, her wrists, cheek pressed to hers. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

A bell rings out— three sharp chimes that echo out across the palace. Disappointment lances through Morrigan’s heart.

“The party is ending,” she says. “Celene will expect me to be there while she farewells her guests.”

“Then you must go.” Shay straightens up, gently rearranges Morrigan’s skirts into something almost presentable. _Sorrow, regret, so soon?_

“It will not take long.” Morrigan lifts her hand to cup Shay’s cheek, thumb tracing the edge of her vallaslin. “I promise.”

“And then?”

“And then I will return,” she says. “And then we will decide what comes next. Together.”

“Together,” Shay repeats, eyes smiling. _Reassurance, strength, joy._

They kiss once more in the low light. A slow, lingering thing. When Morrigan takes her leave she makes herself one promise; that she does so for the last time.

**Author's Note:**

> #shorrigan4lyf


End file.
